


May Jeopardy Be Your Muse

by omfglookitsme



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bruxae (The Witcher), Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral bard, Fix-It, Fix-It of Sorts, Jaskier is a badass, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion is a Mess, Just a little bit of Angst, M/M, Mild Blood, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, also geralt just generally roasts bards, are we really surprised tho, disaster bard, it's not mine if there's no angst, platonic romantic idk idc, take it and run with it lads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:48:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27885502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omfglookitsme/pseuds/omfglookitsme
Summary: It was, of course, once he was starting to put the mountain ordeal behind him that life decided to send one glorious "fuck you" right his way.ORJaskier goes on the hunt for inspiration but instead finds himself in a shitfest in the middle of Oh-Fuck county.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 8
Kudos: 115





	May Jeopardy Be Your Muse

**Author's Note:**

> jaskier walks into some woods  
> "excellent"  
>  ***it's always sunny theme plays***  
>  _'jaskier fights vampires with a lute'_

Had it been weeks? Perhaps even months? Jaskier wasn't particularly sure, he'd stopped keeping track quite some time ago. What is time, anyway?

However long it has been, Jaskier has bided his time wandering the continent, finding anything to do that will just make the days pass. Anything that provided a distraction was more than welcome, even if it was just performing at a small gathering in one of the many villages he has found himself stumbling into. Ever since that day on the mountain, everything has been for the sake of distraction so that Jaskier may refuse to acknowledge and process what happened and the state that it left him in. He deemed it a bulletproof method of coping from day one. Besides, herbalists always insist on bottling things up. As a result, Jaskier has occupied many a tavern and court to the point where he has lost count. He would occupy the venue, and the venue would occupy him also, keeping his mind from steering back to thoughts of mountains, witchers, and sorceresses. It made for a pleasant existence, until things around him would slowly morph into reminders, horrible sharp gusts of frost that would send chills down his spine and cause his heart to stutter, his fingers to misplace themselves on his lute and strum a single off-key note. It was always at that point that Jaskier would know it was time to move on, ambling off to the next distraction. For the most part he never set off with a plan of where to go, but he did begin to realise some time in that he would automatically listen out for anything about a witcher and would follow rumours of Geralt's travels. Jaskier will never admit that he would go to these villages and cities in the hopes of perhaps stumbling into the witcher that he spent years following, but it was likely clear what his intent was whenever he would roll into these places. The following of these rumours was always to no avail, and it reached a point where Jaskier just stopped listening out for those whispers.

It was, of course, once he was starting to put the mountain ordeal behind him that life decided to send one glorious "fuck you" right his way. Patrons began to find his material out-dated and his new songs were just a bit too on the bummed out side to really create the atmosphere a tavern or court demanded. That he could understand, after all it is particularly difficult to compose jovial songs when you're just so damn _sad_ all the time. Then there was today when the demands for one _particular_ song began, to the point where he was going to be refused his payment if he did not play it. Oh how the gods had a cruel sense of humour. Jaskier could not afford to lose coin, especially for the sake of a single song, so he had resentfully played "Toss A Coin To Your Witcher" much to the glee of the frequenters of the tavern. It was almost painful, he had to force his fingers to move and for his vocal cords to play along. The enthusiasm and vigour that his performances are known for wasn't there, and he hates how his one subpar performance was essentially caused by a bastard witcher. 

And that leads to where Jaskier finds himself now. He has officially had it with that song and that witcher, so he is on the hunt for new material, inspiration for a new ballad. Surely, he thinks, there must be something in this godsforsaken continent that can serve as a muse for a vivacious ballad that may finally dethrone the one that talks of Geralt as his most popular work. It may even do some good for him and cement those years of his life as being behind him.

The sun is still relatively high as he wanders, lute slung over his shoulder, hoping inspiration will just apparate before him. Ahead of him is a wooded area, and as Jaskier approaches he notices a collection of pictorial signs, all faded by age and weather. Squinting in an attempt to decipher them, he thinks he spots some crosses and exclamation marks and...is that a skull? As he stands, leaning forward with his hands resting on his hips, face scrunched up as he stares at these signs, he wonders if perhaps these are warnings? Leaning back so he is upright again, Jaskier's gaze darts between the signs and the vast forest before him. For a moment he mulls over how to proceed.

"Ehhh, probably nothing." He concludes, letting his arms drop to his sides and with that he carries on ahead.

It's only a few minutes into his journey onwards that the forest decides to bite back at Jaskier for ignoring its warnings. It does this in the form of a rogue tree branch that catches the arm of his doublet, and before he can notice he takes a further step forward, causing the cerulean fabric to tear. Jaskier pauses, hoping that the sound of harsh tearing and the tug upon his sleeve does not mean what he thinks. Hastily he brings his right arm forward, tugging the fabric forward with his left hand to be able to see properly. Lo and behold there it is, a jagged rip in the arm of a doublet he was exceptionally fond of. With a look of indignation he slowly lifts his head to look upon the offending tree branch where a small piece of fabric hangs, almost as a taunt.

"Now that is just a hate crime." Jaskier mutters as he gives up on trying to pull the edges of the tear closer, as if it will magically glue itself together. He gives the tree a quick kick for good measure, before carrying on but not without shaking his foot out every few steps because _ow_.

Soon he comes across a small collection of houses, a settlement that no matter how hard he tries he cannot conjure a name for. Jaskier stays put for a moment, standing at the uneven path that opens into the settlement, waiting. Listening. Surveying. The sounds of a settlement are absent as are the inhabitants themselves. Only the gentle breeze gives rise to movement in the form of a gently creaking door that has been left ajar. With great trepidation Jaskier walks through the settlement, poking his head in open doorways and unshuttered windows, not daring to step into these buildings. Everything within the walls of these buildings is coloured grey from dust, dust that has been there for gods knows how long. Most of the items within are as they should be, but Jaskier cannot help but notice the number of chairs that have been knocked to the floor, almost too many. It's as if those who lived here were all in a hurry to leave, but why? He cannot recall any tales of settlements being abandoned, neither in song nor hushed voices behind tankards. Jaskier has an especially good ear, so is surprised and troubled that this place ended as it has without a soul knowing. If no one knows, then what happened to those who lived here? Surely they would have spread the story of what happened to their home?

Unsettled by what may have become of the families here and the awfully eerie silence they have left behind, Jaskier decides to not stay long and carries on. 

As the woods become slightly more dense, Jaskier looks up to see where in the sky the sun currently resides and catches sight of some tall ruins in the near distance. At first he is excited at the prospect of seeing some ruins, thinking that it may provide that much needed inspiration that he is desperate for, but he calms himself upon recalling some advice he was previously prescribed. Something about unsavoury beings having a tendency to lurk in and around ruins which seems fitting. He tries to keep the name of the bestower of such advice to the back of his head, otherwise if he gives them any level of acknowledgement he will ignore the advice out of nothing but sheer unadulterated spite.

It is at that point that he hears birdsong somewhere off to his left, further into the woods and away from the ruins ahead. Now that, _that_ could just be what he is seeking. Birds sharing their songs with the ears of those who their song may fall upon, but ultimately creating such dulcet music for themselves and not seeking the commendation and applause of an audience. Throw their bell-like sound in with the scene of blooming woodlands in the afternoon sun and there it is: the beginnings of a ballad that Jaskier is confident that he can compose into something that will provide a spark that his new material has been sorely lacking. Pulling his lute around to his front, he strums a few chords at random as he attempts to begin piecing together a new tune, following the sound of birdsong so as to aid in this process.

Mind focused on the ballad he is so desperate to compose now that he has a muse, Jaskier is unaware of how deep into the forest his feet are taking him.

As he continues onwards, the forest begins to become denser with the sky becoming concealed by a shroud of branches flourishing with leaves. Only thin streams of sunlight filter through, forcing their way through any gap in the layers of leaves that they can find. The more dense that the forest becomes, the richer the birdsong that Jaskier is serenaded with. Several species of bird have joined in the symphony now, each birdsong distinct but yet coming together in perfect harmony, as if the birds have rehearsed their orchestra. Jaskier can feel the bubbles of inspiration growing, waiting to burst. What began as an assembly of random chords that had absolutely no business being played in such a sequence has now become a collection of short chord progressions that he can feel in his fingertips will eventually work their way into a full arrangement. Once his melody is complete it will just be awaiting the words with which to dance with. As he plucks away, Jaskier acquires a sense that this may end in what could be one of his greatest works to date; a ballad that will push him onwards rather than keep him stuck wallowing in the past. That thought enlivens him, giving him the determination he was perhaps lacking when he left that tavern today. It gives him a mild hope that the page is finally turning, ending one chapter and breathing life into a new one of ambition, jubilation and fresh journeys ahead, things that this time around he would create for himself. And with those thoughts spiralling around his head he gets back to work, focussing on the birds that dance somewhere above him, hidden. So as to fully appreciate the song to which he is being treated to as the lone audience member, Jaskier takes a seat at the base of a wide tree so that he may revel in the tune that engulfs him.

It is in that moment that he forgets another key piece of advice that was so kindly bestowed upon him. Jaskier is too wrapped up in the varying voices of birdsong that he disregards the potential peril it foreshadows.

You know, like an idiot.

Blissfully unawares to the danger that he has placed himself in, he feels his mind become fuzzy, his eyelids becoming heavier, his fingers too lazy to continue strumming. And so he falls asleep, mistakenly believing that he is safe with one last conscious thought of _"yeah, this is fine"_.

This is the event that creates the next stumbling block, one that will truly set the wheels of plight into motion.

At first, he dreams of laughter, an adventure with Geralt where for once they are not wrestling with monsters, dealing with murderess sorceresses, or attempting to manage some variety of injury. The sun, high in the sky, makes the grass of the field they walk through with Roach look even more like blades of emerald.

Then it shifts back to the mountain, and he is forced to relive the moment. Once again he is blamed for each misfortune and inconvenience endured by the witcher on their joint travels, and then he is made to hear afresh the one blessing Geralt desired to have. Hearing those words still causes Jaskier a great pain, no lesser than the first time he heard them. It ends with a _"see you around"_ from himself, unsure of what else to say and knowing that it will be unlikely that the two cross paths again, and that stings.

However the dream begins to morph. One after the other Jaskier is presented with him and Geralt on the mountain, but how the scene plays out is different, a variation of scenarios presented to him with each being more unpleasant than the previous.

In the first it isn't Jaskier that walks away, but Geralt. Looking the bard up and down with a look of contempt first, Geralt wordlessly leaves with a not so subtle shake of his head. All Jaskier can do is watch, frozen to the spot and unable to chase after the witcher. Nor can he shout out, asking Geralt to wait. He's stuck and he's alone.

It goes back. Geralt punches Jaskier upon his declaration that Geralt is being unfair. Now on the ground and with blood on the back of his hand from wiping his nose, he looks up to see Geralt just as furious and with no hint of regret. It almost looks like he wants to punch Jaskier again.

 **Again.** This time Geralt grabs him by the collar, shouting just centimetres away from Jaskier's own face. The fury is much clearer in Geralt's eyes from this angle, and frankly it sends a chill of fear down Jaskier's spine. Before this he had never feared Geralt, not once. This manifestation doesn't stop with the bellowing, as Geralt pushes him back with such a force that he staggers and then feels nothing but air behind him as he falls from the mountain, having not realised how close to the edge he had been. As he falls, he doesn't see Geralt peer over or even shout for Jaskier. It's as if he meant for this to happen.

 **Again.** Geralt looks over the edge as Jaskier falls this time, looking completely unfazed by this turn of events. Jaskier doesn't want to believe that he saw a glint of relief in the eyes of the witcher.

 **Again.** Yennefer has stuck around this time, and it's her who attacks Jaskier, sending him flying backwards into a rock with a blast of her magic, knocking the wind from his lungs. Jaskier can't even focus on the fervent words that spill from her lips like venom as he is overcome with unbearable pain from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. The air feels thick with what he can imagine is magic; his screams feel muffled among it all. There are moments where he can do something other than scream, and he cries out for Geralt, for help, _oh gods please help, what's happening, Geralt please make it **stop**_. Through blurred vision he can see that Geralt stands unmoving, not rushing to the aid of the one person who has been there for him through a good chunk of the shit the witcher has experienced in the last decade or so. When Jaskier's vision has moments of clarity, he swears he sees the corner of Geralt's mouth curve up ever so slightly. As he writhes in pain on the ground getting clouds of dust in his lungs and eyes, Jaskier realises that no matter what he does, he will never come first over Yennefer to Geralt. He will never be a priority. Perhaps he never was...

 ** _Again._** Before Jaskier can even say _"see you around"_ the words die in his throat as pain blossoms through his abdomen, like prickly vines worming their way in, invading his body and latching themselves onto anything they can find and _constricting_. Looking down, Jaskier sees a blade that definitely wasn't there previously. Following the blade his eyes reach hands, then arms, travelling upwards until they land on a face. A very familiar face. Geralt's face. It's easy to connect the dots, but surely _not_? Jaskier is still looking at Geralt incredulously when the blade is swiftly extracted, and it's as if that was the only thing keeping Jaskier upright as he folds to the ground, pools of warmth quickly forming on his stomach and lower back. Feeling the urge to cough he does so, and he can see the blood as it's violently ejected from his body. If his encounter with the djinn is anything to go by, this is definitely not promising of a good outcome. Still in disbelief, he looks up at Geralt, blood running down his chin. He watches as Geralt nonchalantly wipes his blade, clearly more troubled by the blood on his sword than his supposed 'friend' bleeding out on the floor. Then he walks away, leaving Jaskier helpless on the ground. He watches as the witcher walks, not looking back once, completely detached. His vision begins to fade as he weakly calls for help, reaching out a han-

With a start, Jaskier awakens from his impromptu nap. His breaths come in gasps as he takes note of his surroundings, panicked that he's back on that bloody mountain, slumping back against the tree in relief upon realising that he is still in the forest. The relief is soon overwhelmed by a feeling of disquiet. The streams of sunlight are far more subdued than they were previous to the nap, signifying that dusk will soon be approaching. Pair that with being sat in a forest much denser than when you first entered and the urge to leave is immense. Throw in the birdsong that is now haunting in it's continuation and sudden softness for good measure and that urge turns inordinate. With that feeling eating away at him, Jaskier swiftly gets to his feet with a minor stumble, throwing his lute back over his shoulder. It is probably best that he vacate post-haste.

Vaguely he thinks he recalls which direction he came from, so with nothing else to go on he goes forth. Jaskier will never admit that he was in a hurry or that he nearly tripped over his own feet countless times. No, he would insist that he was power walking on uneven terrain. As he hastily continues for what feels like an age in forests that stretch out endlessly before him, the canopy above him begins to thin out, opening up to let the dying rays of sunshine through. It also allows the jagged tops of those ruins he glimpsed earlier in the day to peek into the forest, and this gives Jaskier the reassurance that he is indeed heading in the direction of that abandoned settlement at least. He remembers to steer clear of the ruins themselves.

Turns out he needn't worry because despite logical thought and action, if there is trouble it will inexplicably find Jaskier.

Off to his left, Jaskier spots someone who at first glance appears to be a traveler in a hurry, hastening to reach their room for the night perhaps. Bringing up a rough map in his mind's eye of the area, he doesn't believe there are any settlements in the direction this traveler is headed, let alone an inn. Then he notes that they are going in the direction of those unsettling ruins. Concluding that they must be lost, Jaskier cannot just stand and let them continue on their way, especially as it may be a way paved with danger. As he slowly approaches so as to not startle the traveler, he notes the length of their hair and the silhouette from a distance and deduces that the traveler is a woman, a young woman if the smoothness of their complexion hinted by the fading light is anything to go off of.

Jaskier takes a moment to imagine how this situation may pan out, and entertains the idea that the story could lend itself to a rather marvellous ballad.

"Pardon me, fair maiden, but have you happened to have lost yourself in these vast woodlands?" Jaskier begins, continuing to take steps towards the woman, noticing the scarcity of her clothing despite the air being crisper at this time of day. Best Jaskier ensures he helps redirect her then.

"See, I cannot help but notice that you are walking in quite the wrong direction, for the nearest tavern providing accommodation is over in _this_ direction." Jaskier proclaims with an arm extended, pointing in the direction that he is headed which correlates with the orientation of the tavern that he has in mind. The woman bears no acknowledgement, continuing to walk away. As unlikely as it is, perhaps she simply has not heard him so Jaskier attempts to keep up with her pace.

Too focused on the woman and where in the hell she's going, Jaskier fails to notice how the birdsong that had quietened has begun to pick up again with each stride he takes.

"I really must protest, yes perhaps to your vexation, but an old fri- _acquaintance_ of mine gave me some advice that I think is rather indispensable at this present moment. You see, ruins have this reputation for being...well, major no-no spots to visit, what with the whole being occupied by beings who are particularly... _uncouth_ , shall we say. How is this all relevant, you ask? Well it's funny really, because you're on course to run right through those ruins that you can juuust see through the trees there."

Among all his gesticulating in the hopes that it will help convey his point to the woman, he has gotten close enough to the woman to distinguish more about her, mainly the absolute scarcity of her clothing which is arguably not even clothing, more like rags leaving the woman incredibly exposed. Neither can he help but notice how incredibly sharp her nails appear, verging on being defined as talons. The thought that this may be no ordinary woman crosses his mind, and it comes right back and firmly establishes itself upon hearing a sound that could only be coming from the woman with how close it seems. It is a shrill sound, one which Jaskier is sure he heard among the birdsong just before he fell asleep. Hearing it now in such close proximity where it's louder, more piercing, it travels through his body and settles heavy in his stomach. Jaskier has a bad feeling about his current circumstances, briefly recalling a book he read during one winter in his attempts to become a better, more knowledgeable companion to a witcher. All these details are beginning to add up and are painting a single clear image based on the information he devoured all those years ago.

Jaskier has an awfully bad feeling.

When the woman finally turns to face him, Jaskier immediately regrets the series of decisions he has made since leaving the tavern, maybe even since he has woken up. Hindsight is a wonderful beast that lets Jaskier know that today has been an amalgamation of not good, very bad decisions.

To put it eloquently: Jaskier fucked up.

If the alabaster white skin that clings so tightly to her frame that you can see skeletal structures and muscle isn't a massive raging red flag, along with the rapiers for nails and eyes like those of a particularly demonic and incredibly malicious cat, then those teeth are. Calling those jagged tombstones in the graveyard of a mouth 'teeth' would be a stretch for anyone, let alone an actual dentist. Even a few paces away, Jaskier can see and almost feel the sharpness of that bite, each fang elongated but diverse in their lengths. He can't help his momentary electrified fascination when gazing at those fangs, but thankfully that's very quickly quashed by logic and survival instinct. The sickening cacophony of her hushed song still breezes passed her cracked lips.

To top it all off there is also the matter of her clothing, or more the lack thereof.

"Oh, well I um... **oh**. Those are...well, those are bosoms." Jaskier stumbles over his words, completely at a loss on how to react to the terrifying woman before him with her chest exposed for all to see, although there are very few souls around so good thing she chose a forest. "To be frank this is not how I saw my day panning out, and it makes me wonder whether this is how you saw your day going. I'm sure you're bloody cold at this point so I think..." As he talks, Jaskier slowly begins to walk back, one hand holding his lute firmly on his back. "I'll just......leave you be...and let you...get some...clothes? Yes, I think you may find yourself in need of something a bit warmer and more...sufficient, let's say."

As he backs away, his gaze fastened upon the woman before him who is not so much a woman after all, the shrill sound produced by the being before him gets louder and Jaskier's well-trained ear can immediately tell that there are now multiple sources to this tinny sound. Though he cannot be sure that the creature before him won't lunge at him the moment he averts his gaze, Jaskier takes his chances and glances around him. In seconds the situation he is in has surpassed the shit scale astronomically. Through the trees emerge more creatures like the woman before him, all with hideously long talons and fangs threatening to pierce through their own lips, slowly stalking towards him like they are hunters and Jaskier is a poor rabbit. In this present moment he wishes he was as fast as those little buggers. Their song gets louder the more they surround him. So sickening is their piercing song that it makes Jaskier feel physically sick, but he tries his utmost to suppress it and he does so with some level of success.

Unfortunately every single woman appears to be in the same predicament as the first.

"Holy mother of Melitele do you all have some peculiar form of allergy? Put some **bloody** clothes on. I'm all for body confidence and I admire you all for it but good grief, I did not come for a jaunt in the woods for a _bosom_ fest. I know times are tough and your kind may not have ease of access to a seamstress as others do, but shitting hell this is just absurd."

Jaskier's bewilderment dulls the terror he feels, but only momentarily for that terror comes crashing over that bewilderment like a tidal wave, violently hitting Jaskier full force and almost knocking him breathless. The creatures before him parading as innocent women - Jaskier cannot remember the name of these creatures and is kicking himself for it - are closing in, looking as if they are circling him and working out where the ideal part of him to strike is. Despite all of his encounters with monsters over the years, Jaskier does not exactly have the training to tackle them. There was never any need during his travels for him to take up sword training seeing as he always had Geralt to take care of any beast that crossed their path. Geralt isn't here though, so Jaskier feels that he's rather fucked.

With no other real choice, Jaskier lifts the strap of his lute from over his shoulder and grabs the neck of the instrument, wielding it in front of him like a weapon. He can't ignore how pathetic he feels and must look. A bard, standing somewhere in some darkening forest that he decided would be a good idea to traverse, wielding a bloody _lute_ as a weapon against a pack of fanged, bloodthirsty and frankly feral women.

A cretin, that's what he is.

"Come now, there's no need for this unsettling behaviour." Jaskier forces the words out hoping they sound as assertive as he wants, swinging his body to the left and the right and then back to the left as the women surround him, getting ever closer. "Why don't we all just take a moment here, no need to get our undergarments in a twist, though I'm starting to question whether you... _lovely_ ladies are actually wearing any and I am unsure what my feelings are on that. That's besides the point though. Personally, and I want to know your thoughts on this, I think we should just drop this shit now and just go about our own business. I'll go back to whatever tavern will have me and you ladies can uh...continue to stalk these here woods to your heart's content. What do you say?"

He gets his answer in the form of a sharp scream and one of the circling women lunging towards him.

" _Shitting **hell**_." Is all Jaskier can manage to articulate as sharp claws extend towards him.

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It is relatively quiet apart from the sound of Roach's hooves on the uneven beaten path that will eventually lead to some modest village, these paths always do. After another full day of travelling trying to complete an ultimately very simple contract that had been overcomplicated by the contract giver, Geralt just wants to find an inn where he can rest and recover from the fatigue caused by complete and utter imbeciles. Camping in some random spot just won't cut it this evening, after all he has been sleeping on the ground for what feels like months at this point. Constantly finding and completely contracts, going from one almost immediately onto the next, will do that. After the absolute shitfest that was that dragon hunt, he has sworn to travelling and completing contracts alone, far less messier that way. He does not need the dramatics, those are more suited to someone else. A name springs to mind, but it is merely an echo now. After taking a break following the hunt which was in reality just a twelve hour breather, Geralt had swiftly returned to doing what he does best: killing deserving monsters for coin. Thankfully that business has been steady, not booming but enough. People seem more prepared to enlist the help of a roaming witcher, and as much as he would like to put that down to his proficiency, deep down he knows what it is, or more precisely _whom_. He wonders momentarily if he ever properly thanked them.

There's no need for wondering really, Geralt knows for a fact that he did not.

The fine gravel beneath Geralt's feet gives an almost imperceptible crunch with each step he takes and just as he's about to take the path that curves to the right, that's when he hears it: distant pitched screeches coming from within the forest to Geralt's left. Sounds like a pack of creatures, and whatever they are appear to have found something and are on the hunt, confirmed by distinct unintelligible shouts characteristic of those of a human who has gotten themselves into deep shit. Geralt has an idea of what creatures dwell there from the piercing shrieks, and his judgement is proven correct by the birdsong he can hear in the distance, composed of the song of numerous birds.

Bruxae. The idiot has wandered into bruxa territory.

Geralt keeps his eyes fixed on the general area where the sounds are coming from, pondering on what his next steps will be. He could just leave whoever it is to their fate, after all they were dumb enough to saunter into the belly of the beast, especially as advice regarding birdsong and bruxae makes the rounds around the villages. There are even notices put in some villages that reside close to these territories. His conscience starts to kick in though, telling him that he can't just leave this individual to the gruesome fate that currently awaits them. Perhaps they didn't know any better. As much as he loathes the concept of destiny, Geralt cannot help but humour the thought that perhaps it was destiny that brought him to this area at this precise time just as this individual entangles themselves in trouble.

"Fuck." It's a sharp and breathy exclamation through gritted teeth, followed by a resigning sigh. "Come on, Roach."

Approaching the edge of the woods he spots a collection of faded signs, but it's still clear that they convey messages of warning and danger. Whoever wandered in there must be _really_ stupid, unfortunately so. Before venturing any further, Geralt decides it may be best to leave Roach at the forest's edge. Tying her reins to one of the trees, he then reaches into the saddlebags for some vampire oil he knows he has left from a contract he did a couple of months back. Despite knowing that he doesn't, he double checks if he has any Black Blood in one of the many vials anyway. Guess the oil, signs, and sheer skill will suffice. Unsheathing his silver sword, he coats the blade in a generous amount of the oil to give himself a better chance of taking down the pack quickly and with ease.

With one last look to ensure that Roach will be okay, Geralt heads into the forest and towards the screams.

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Geralt is fast-approaching the pack of bruxae and the poor individual who stumbled into their territory, and in all honesty he's surprised that they've managed to hold their own for so long, especially with what sounds like at least seven bruxae. As the shouting and shrieking gets louder, a new sound enters the mix, that being the thud and twang of what sounds like a...lute? Who fights monsters with a lute? Perhaps it's a bard which would explain the complete lack of common sense. Geralt is careful as he approaches, each step silent as if no one had tread on the ground at all, a ghost. A small opening ahead of him is the stage for the struggle unfolding, with seven bruxa as he had correctly assumed circling a frantic shape of cerulean stained with red wielding a lute. From the instrument and the bright, extravagant clothing Geralt is confident that it is none other than a bard. With that piece of context, the whole scenario makes a bit more sense.

Stalking ever closer, there is the distinct sound of the twang of lute strings coming into contact with something, and through the thinning sea of trees Geralt can see that what the lute has come into contact with is one of the bruxa. Immediately the sound is followed by a crack and a distorted twang as the lute takes some damage. The bard has his back to Geralt, but he can sense the anger emanating from the man as he glances at his instrument.

"You broke my **fucking** lute," the man squawks, his body visibly going tense, ready to fight. " _Now_ you've unleashed pure hell upon yourselves."

There's a familiar twang to that voice, but in that tone and without a face Geralt cannot place it. The bard fights with a bit more ferocity, swinging his lute in admittedly well-aimed hits for the most part. It is not incredibly effective to keep the bruxae down though, and one inevitably lands a hit on his front, though Geralt can't see precisely where. With the bard having taken a hit and thus being thrown off momentarily, Geralt chooses that as his moment to step out before the bruxae swarm in on the bard in blue. One bruxa that has strayed further out from the pack is the first target, and the unsuspecting creature is taken down with a single impalement through the chest with Geralt's silver blade. This inevitably catches the attention of a couple of others from the pack who have now spotted Geralt and are heading towards him with shrieks, but with a simple gesture of his hand he casts Aard, sending the bruxa nearest to him hurtling backwards through the air. It's partner charges at Geralt and the two exchange blows, Geralt with his sword and the bruxa with it's razor sharp talons. Eventually the bruxa is taken down and it's partner swiftly after with a swift decapitation.

Then the 'plan' goes south as Geralt is blindsided by another bruxa who must have been lurking among the nearby trees, waiting for an opportune moment to pounce. It knocks Geralt to the ground, landing on his back with such force that the grip on his sword loosens. The bruxa is on top of him, attempting to swipe with it's claws, it's jaw snapping together as it attempts to bite down on his flesh. One arm holding the bruxa back, he blindly reaches out for his blade with the other, but it has fallen just out of his reach. The creature's jaw moves again, but it's different this time so Geralt rapidly casts Quen just in time for the piercing scream that was intended to stun him. He can feel the force of it despite the sign, but thankfully not so much that his arm drops from holding the creature back.

Then suddenly, the creature's face goes blank and it's jaw slack, and looking down Geralt can see why. Through the centre of it's chest Geralt can see the end of his silver blade, and then just as quick it disappears, causing the bruxa to fall heavily onto him. Pushing the dead weight off of him, Geralt lifts himself on his elbows to a sight he was definitely not expecting.

Before him stands a man he has not laid eyes on since the hunt. Before him stands Jaskier, covered in his own blood that stains his torn clothing, wielding Geralt's silver blade whilst breathing heavily.

Neither of them say anything for a moment, just staring at each other, disbelieving. Jaskier is the one to break the silence.

"Where the _**fuck**_ have you been?"

"Jaskier?"

"By the gods, he still remembers my name. What a feat!"

"Jaskier..." Geralt peers just to the right of Jaskier and can see a bruxa slowly getting to it's feet, it's furious gaze fixed upon Jaskier's back.

"Has your ego inflated so much that it sacrificed your short-term memory to make space?" His tone is exasperated, throwing the sword to the ground to place his hands on his hips as he glares at Geralt. "Yes, 'tis I, Jaskier. You know, the bard you were blessed to have had removed from your life? That one."

"Jaskier, mo-!" 

The warning comes just too late as the bruxa pounces on Jaskier, sending him down to the ground with a yelp. He lands on his front with a thud, and thankfully for his face the ground is soft enough to not cause any serious damage or pain. The next moments are a whirlwind with the creature violently swiping at Jaskier, the needle-like nails coming into contact with the cloth on his back and the flesh beneath it with every other swing. Geralt can just see the droplets of blood flying from the talons with the momentum of each colliding swing. As Jaskier digs his fingers into the softened earth, attempting to pull himself from under the bruxa with gritted teeth, Geralt surges to his feet, positioning his hand to cast a well-aimed blast of Aard to get the monster off of the bard. Jaskier pulls himself further away from the bruxa once he is freed from the weight of it, and Geralt holds it back until he spots an ideal opportunity, the perfect opening between the wildly flailing arms to drive his blade into the lower part of the bruxa's chest. It's shrieking stops almost instantaneously, and Geralt can feel it's dead weight on the end of his sword. The creature collapses ungracefully to the floor once Geralt extracts his blade, laying at his feet in an untidy heap of gangly limbs and tangled lengths of black hair. As he stares back at it's empty gaze, Geralt hears a shift in the air behind him and just as he's turning the last standing bruxa is about to lunge at him, fangs bared ready to bite.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a blur of burnt sienna comes in from his periphery and collides with the side of the bruxa's head with a mighty crack, the force behind the hit sending it crashing to the ground in a daze. When everything stills momentarily, Geralt can see it was Jaskier's now fully broken lute that collided with the bruxa, with the man himself wielding it with a tense jaw. Taking a couple of steps towards the creature already attempting to get back up, Jaskier takes what remains of the lute in both hands and raises it above his head, before sending it down and into the torso of the bruxa with all the force he can muster. It's enough to pierce through the flesh and leave the bruxa unmoving.

Jaskier releases the lute from his grip, taking a step back whilst the lute remains firmly lodged in the bruxa. He refuses to lift his gaze to look at Geralt, he's concerned about the fiery anger he can feel bubbling up to his chest, ready to explode. A moment of quiet passes. No shrieks. No birdsong.

"Jaskier." As Geralt looks at the bard, he's not entirely sure what to say. Or at least, what to say without provoking a poor reaction. He takes note of the state of the man, and settles on what he feels is a seemingly harmless query. "Are you alright?" 

"Am I alright?" Jaskier parrots back with a mirthless laugh, snatching Geralt's sword from his hand as he begins to walk away. Geralt notices the debilitated bruxa attempting to get up from the spot where Geralt first saw Jaskier. _So that's why he's taken my sword..._ Geralt muses. He feels a momentary flicker of pride as he realises that Jaskier himself had downed the creature in the first place. And with nothing but a string instrument. Perhaps he underestimated the bard and the capabilities of the humble lute.

"Am I alright? Why yes, Geralt, I've never been better. Fighting off a pack of naked, demonic women who want to kill me is just a daily activity at this point. Then you come galloping in like a knight in shining armour after however many months-"

"Seven." Geralt clarifies, and he almost immediately regrets it as Jaskier turns back and looks at him with the most incredulous look on his face.

"Yes, _thank you_ , Geralt." Jaskier all but spits out, venom tinging his words as he drives the sword into the back of the weakened bruxa. It doesn't even cry out. "Seven months and you come back into the picture trying to be the damn hero, a pariah with a point to make. Well you're in for a rude awakening here, but I don't need a hero." He all but snarls, taking a step back towards Geralt.

However, Jaskier falters as his knees buckle ever so slightly, almost sending him to the ground. As if on reflex Geralt swiftly moves forward and reaches a hand out to steady him, bringing his other hand up to help keep Jaskier on his feet once he's close enough. As soon as Jaskier steadies himself though, he drops Geralt's sword to place both hands on Geralt's chest and violently pushes him back.

"Get your hands _off_ of me." He all but shouts. "I don't need your help and I certainly don't need _you_."

Geralt is thrown off guard by the sheer anger flowing from Jaskier, almost palpable in the air. The image of him in Geralt's mind is usually jovial, not always, but never so sharp, never so vicious. Geralt slowly leans down to pick up his discarded sword and sheath it, never taking his eyes off of Jaskier. The man before him is pure rage, and as much as Geralt knows he deserves it, it still unsettles him slightly.

"I know it's been a little while, an-"

"A little while? It's been seven months!"

"Seven months isn't that long." And that marks another faux pas in this conversation.

"Seven months isn't that long? Are you fucking serious, Geralt? Sure, maybe when compared to the **years** we spent travelling by the other's side, seven months isn't too long a time to not talk to someone after verbally tearing them apart."

"Look, I-"

"Nope." Jaskier very quickly cuts him off. "Shut your damn mouth, I'm not finished. Also I'm _very_ angry and if you even attempt to say something even close to resembling an apology I'll stop being angry, so shut it and let me shout because good grief do you bloody deserve it. Now, when it comes to time you seem to forget one tiny little detail, just a small one. To you, Mr I'm-a-witcher-and-time-is-a-mere-construct-inapplicable-to-me-now-excuse-me-whilst-I-wave-my-sword-about, seven months 'isn't that long', but dammit is it a long time for me." Jaskier looks to Geralt earnestly. "Humans age, Geralt, humans _die_. I don't get the luxury of time like you do."

"I understand." Geralt states with a nod. "It was careless of me to say that."

"Oh like you give a shit."

Geralt doesn't say anything immediately, instead taking the time to look at Jaskier instead, a sea of red and cerulean. His hair is a mess and the clothing he usually takes such pride in is in shambles, his doublet undone and his undershirt no longer a crisp white. He looks pale, perhaps because of all the blood that stains his torn clothing and is drying on his skin. It's hard to count the scratches and gashes but they decorate his arms, chest, and back in a macabre display from what he can see with Jaskier not fully facing him. From the deeper colour seeping into the fabric on the side of him, Geralt can tell the wounds to his back are just that bit deeper. A couple of scratches adorn Jaskier's left cheek, the redness of the irritated skin surrounding them and the startling crimson of the blood match the fire in his eyes. A face Geralt is so used to seeing as soft and exuberant is sullen and harder around the edges, with something akin to melancholy dancing somewhere beneath all of the rage. Despite this though he still sees the same bard he travelled with, who he always inevitably got into some trouble with, the one he pushed away. He can still see his one regret.

Apparently Geralt has spent too long looking. Too long unspeaking.

"So what is it the Butcher of Blaviken wants? After some damn coin now?" Reaching into the pocket of his trousers that are still in one piece, Jaskier pulls out a handful of coins and throws them at Geralt. "There you go, now piss off."

"Jaskier," Geralt sighs, mildly taken aback. "I didn't come into what was _clearly_ bruxa territory to save your backside just to get some coin."

"Oh really? Now that is surprising."

"I don't see why with the countless times I've saved your arse over the years."

"That was when I was still a character in your stories." Jaskier shouts, taking a step towards Geralt, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "Now I'm barely a footnote."

"Don't be ridiculous." Geralt bites back. "Did a bruxa hit you over the head to think like that?"

"No." Jaskier says with an unsettling level of calm, getting into Geralt's space and looking him straight in the eye, unwavering. Geralt had never realised how close in height they are. "A witcher pierced my heart with words at the top of a mountain to think like that."

"I'm sorry if I hurt you, a-"

"Oh there's no 'if', you **did** hurt me, and your lacklustre apology if I were to even call it that simply doesn't cut it."

"Maybe if you would just fucking listen-"

"No, I won't just fucking listen because I have gone unheard by you for so damn long, and you sure wouldn't listen to me up on that mountain. Why would I show you such courtesy? It's finally time for _you_ to listen. You went and blamed everything on me, told me that it would be a blessing for me to be gone from your life, do you have **any** idea how that made me feel?"

"I have a hunch."

"You have absolutely no idea, because after all what does the mighty White Wolf know about emotions?"

"Enough to know that I was wrong." Geralt's raised voice makes Jaskier pause for a moment, fixing the witcher with an evaluative gaze.

"Then why did you do it?" His voice is quiet, and that melancholy that Geralt spotted earlier begins to crawl to the surface. "I get you weren't best pleased with how events unfolded, but that was no excuse to lash out at me, and to such an awful degree. If I remember correctly it was you who decided we'd go on that hunt, whilst I was staunchly against it. So how the blame for how it all went landed on me remains a mystery to myself. After so long, after everything we went through as a pair, you were that ready to throw it away and banish me from your life?"

Geralt lets out a mournful sigh. "No. I wasn't."

"Yet you went ahead and did just that."

Nothing is said between them in the seconds that follow. Geralt can tell that Jaskier is trapped in thought, his gaze moving away from Geralt and fixing itself to a spot on the ground just right of the witcher. He briefly wonders if Jaskier will continue, and that morphs into a concern of if Jaskier is okay. Absolutely does Geralt realise how abhorrent he had been, it only took Jaskier to leave for him to realise. However, he had never realised how deeply it had affected Jaskier, and that is now plain to see. Unsure on whether any words he says would be welcomed, he takes a slow step towards the bard and goes to raise a hand, intending to place it on Jaskier's shoulder. Turns out that wasn't to be welcomed either.

"Fuck off!" Jaskier roars, slapping away Geralt's hand with a heavy slap. "You used me as a scapegoat to project all of your problems onto. I only ever wanted to help you, but you only ever saw it as an inconvenience. Never did you consider me with any level of esteem, and others always came before me, including that damned witch that really you only met because of me and my unfortunate time with that djinn."

"Jas-"

"I always just shrugged it off because I had always thought so highly of you, considered you one of my greatest muses, if not **the** greatest. There were times I thought I had gotten through to you, moments where I thought you actually cared, that we were on the same page, but you have made it abundantly clear that that's not the case."

"Jaskier, ju-"

"You tore me _apart_ on that mountain, Geralt. Despite rejection after rejection from others throughout my life, they pale in comparison to the hurt you caused me that day. I have never felt so pathetic, so useless, so utterly spurned in my entire life. It hurt me to my core, the pain latching onto every nerve so that I felt it for weeks and months after."

"Jaskier."

"It wasn't fair!" It comes out as a howl as Jaskier pushes Geralt's chest with such force that it causes him to stumble back a few steps. He is taken aback by the strength he never knew the bard possessed.

Jaskier looks up at him with a scowl, breathing heavily with what Geralt initially believes to be anger, but from the glistening of Jaskier's eyes and the red that tinges his scleras Geralt knows it's also something else. Jaskier raises a fist and slams it into Geralt's shoulder, although with not as much force as the push, as what he's capable of.

"It wasn't fair." He chokes out, the anger appearing to dissipate until all that's left is the hurt, clear as day for Geralt to see, to see what he caused, what he left behind.

"Jaskier." His tone is gentle and he doesn't take a step towards the bard, opting to give him space and to allow him control over that. Jaskier looks up at him, and Geralt does not fail to notice the lone tear that has escaped and runs down his cheek. Just seeing someone usually so full of cheer and an extraordinary lust for life this way is painful. Geralt can feel the ache in his chest.

"Jaskier, I know I was out of line. Though it is no excuse, I was angry, and I took it out on the last person I had left. I didn't know how to deal with it otherwise. As soon as you walked away I knew I had made a mistake. I regretted it." Geralt takes a hesitant step forward, and this time Jaskier doesn't push him away. "I still regret it. Believe me when I tell you that.

"You were only an inconvenience when you were in trouble. I knew that whenever you got in trouble, I would drop everything to help. Perhaps you can call it a reflex. Or caring too much. Any contract I had would then be postponed. Only then were you maybe an inconvenience."

For a brief moment the corner of Jaskier's mouth turns up ever so slightly, but just as quick as it appears it's gone again. Geralt noticed though, and he'll take that as progress.

"I respect you. Always have. You're a valuable companion. Dedicated. Passionate. Charismatic. Confident. Perhaps too confident at times, but I can let that slide. As for Yennefer, we cannot escape each other. That's my own fault. With you, you were a choice. Always have been a choice. And I've always chosen you."

"Except at the mountain." Jaskier remarks, but the sadness has noticeably diminished. Maybe Geralt isn't as hopeless as he assumed.

"Leave that in the past. It's a blemish on our timeline. It left a scar, but scars heal with time. It will be a reminder. Whatever that reminder is is up to you."

Another step forward, still no objection. Now the two are face to face, no longer like stranded icebergs aimlessly drifting, nor like two opposing forces. Old wounds that still feel as fresh as the day they were inflicted are slowly beginning to heal, but that healing process will take time. Jaskier looks at Geralt, really looks at him, and as much as he searches he cannot see anything on the witcher's face or in his eyes to suggest that he is lying. All he sees is honesty and even vulnerability.

"I'm sorry, Jaskier. I never meant to hurt you the way I did." 

"So what you said? On the mountain?"

"You were never to blame, Jaskier. At the mountain and before it. All fault is mine."

"Geralt the mighty witcher admitting fault, now _that's_ something to write about." Jaskier remarks with a half-hearted smirk.

"Then write." Geralt encourages. "Through my travels I haven't heard any new material from you."

"Was waiting for the right muse, for inspiration so glorious to strike." At this statement, Geralt pauses and gives Jaskier a weary look.

"Don't tell me that's how you ran into the bruxae."

"Okay, I won't."

That gives Geralt his answer and a _"hmm"_ escapes his mouth as he looks at Jaskier with an exasperated look, his head shaking ever so slightly. From the look on Jaskier's face though he does not give a single shit. Some things never change. Wiping at his face with what is left of the sleeve of his ruined doublet - he'll say he's wiping away blood and not tears even though the blood has long dried - he casts his gaze over to his ruined lute, half of the body laying shattered on the ground and the other sticking out of some horrible nightmare creature, the broken strings curled upwards as if they too want to get as far from the monster as possible. Geralt notices the path of Jaskier's gaze, the crestfallen look on his face hiding nothing.

"Come on, let's leave in case more show up." Geralt instructs, beckoning Jaskier to follow him. And follow he does, though with an arm wrapped around himself pressing into his side. "Hmm, first stop will be an inn where your wounds can be attended to and you can rest."

"Rest sounds utterly fabulous right now."

"Then we'll go on the hunt for a new lute." At this Jaskier stops midstride and Geralt stops too once he no longer hears Jaskier's footsteps, looking to see what the hold-up is. Jaskier is looking at him with wide and disbelieving eyes. "Well?"

"We?" His voice is small, but there is a bubbling excitement underlying his tone.

"Yes." Geralt then realises the significance of what he said. And that he means it. "Yes, we." He says, softer this time.

At this Jaskier lights up, his chest feeling lighter than it has in months. He picks up his stride as he and Geralt walk through the forest and towards where Roach is stood waiting. He notes that there is an almost indiscernible softness to the witcher now, the rough edges not so jagged anymore, not so opposed to letting others close now. And that's for him. Obviously one conversation isn't going to fix everything, there is still hurt there, but they're on the right path. A good one. Geralt looks over to Jaskier as they continue to walk, a small smile playing at his lips. He's not foolish enough to think that Jaskier doesn't notice. Every now and then Geralt reaches to place a hand on Jaskier's shoulder, guiding him around an obstacle his eyes missed, hiding in the darkness quickly taking over the forest.

As they continue, something grips Jaskier.

That inspiration he was looking for? That muse?

He's finally found it. Or to be more exact, it found him.

His perfect muse came back.

Maybe this time he'll stay.

**Author's Note:**

> i've never written witcher stuff before so do forgive me lmao.
> 
> thanks to my mate who confirmed for me that there ARE dentists in the witcher as i went off to them about that one sentence riding on there being dentists. now i can sleep soundly knowing that that one line is canon compliant.


End file.
